Page 120 of Silence and Surrender

“Have they told Clara yet?” I asked.

“Cooper thought it best to wait until we’re finished here,” he said. “Clara’s excitement isn’t...easily containable. And we need everyone focused for a few more days.”

I nodded, understanding the precaution while imagining Clara’s eventual delight. She’d become an unexpected ally during my recovery in Tuscany, her straightforward curiosity and unguarded affection breaking through defenses I’d thought impenetrable.

“She’ll want sleepovers immediately,” I predicted, settling more comfortably against Colton’s side.

“All planned for,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on my shoulder.

I tilted my head to study his profile, amused and touched by the thoroughness of this planning. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Not everything,” he admitted, meeting my eyes. “But I’ve tried to anticipate what would make you happy. What would make us secure.”

The simple statement carried weight far beyond its words. This man had redirected all his strategic brilliance toward building something beautiful.

“I wonder sometimes,” I said quietly, “what we would have become if we’d met differently. If there had been no trafficking network, no kidnapping, no rescue.”

His expression grew thoughtful. “I like to think we would have found each other anyway,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps at some gallery opening or auction. You correcting my artistic ignorance. Me boring you with legal jargon.”

The image made me smile. “We might have been normal.”

“Dull,” he corrected with a slight curve of his lips. “Ordinary people leading ordinary lives.”

“Would that have been so terrible?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He considered the question with characteristic thoroughness. “No,” he finally said. “Not terrible. But incomplete, perhaps. I wouldn’t have...” He hesitated, searching for words. “I wouldn’t have known what I was capable of. What was truly important.”

I understood what he meant. For all the trauma we’d endured, all the danger we’d faced, there had also been transformation. Growth. The shedding of comfortable illusions to reveal harder, more essential truths.

“One more day,” I repeated softly, resting my head against his shoulder. “One more battle.”

“And then Tuscany,” he promised, his lips brushing my temple. “Sunshine. Olive groves. No more hiding.”

The weight of tomorrow’s operation pressed against us for a moment, all the risks, all the variables beyond our control. Rodger’s ruthlessness. The lives at stake. The network that had nearly destroyed us once before.

But here, in the quiet sanctuary of our penthouse, surrounded by security measures, planning documents and ultrasound images, the future he described felt not just possible but inevitable.

“I should be terrified,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “About tomorrow. About Rodger.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But all I can think about is that studio.” I smiled against his shoulder. “The light. The space. The quiet.”

I felt, rather than saw, his answering smile. His breath was warm against my hair. “Mrs. Moreau, you’ve become rather romantic.”

“Your fault entirely, Mr. Moreau,” I replied, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “You’ve thoroughly corrupted my practical nature.”

His eyes darkened slightly, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. “Have I now?”

The tension between us shifted, warming to something more immediate than plans for Tuscan estates and connecting bedrooms. In the soft glow of security monitors and London’s reflected city lights, his expression had changed to something more primal, more possessive.

“Thoroughly,” I confirmed, leaning into his touch. “Beyond redemption, I fear.”

His answering chuckle was low, a physical sensation where our bodies pressed together. “If this is corruption,” he murmured, “I find myself entirely without remorse.”

I shifted to face him fully, my movements made awkward by pregnancy but no less determined. “Let me see,” I challenged softly. “Show me exactly how unrepentant you are.”

His control, always so carefully maintained, especially since discovering my pregnancy visibly wavered. “Isabella,” he warned, though his hand had already moved to my hip. “Doctor Eisenberg said—”

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